They were alone. He was alone.
They were alone. He was alone.
“Please,” he said, digging his hands deeper into his pockets against the cold, “please get into the car.”
THE IMPASSE BY JAMES BUCHANAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 60
Her eyes were wide, filled with rage and seething. She was no longer in possession of herself.
Her rages came like Nor’ Easters. Pulsing storms that lasted for a few days, a week, then dissipated.
It was on then off. They’d go to bed fine. The next morning a mental storm rent her eyes. He could sense it, like a change in air pressure.
On this morning, the air was cold. Too cold to snow. There wasn’t even a glimmer of sunrise. Not a star in the sky, no moon, and the storm was in her eyes. It had come two weeks before and showed no sign of abating.
He shivered. “Come on, please, get back in the car.”
“No.” Steam flowed from her mouth. She didn’t blink.
The car’s lights cast a narrow beam on the road. The yellow double lines disappeared into the dark. Steam rose from the exhaust, from her, from him.
The woods were quiet. The only…